A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Bauer reloaded, rolled back over, slid the musket into position, kept it motionless, his eyes just above the musket, the sights aligned, aimed at the stovepipe, a circle of daylight, clear, no movement. He stared until his eyes watered, and he blinked through sand in his eyes, heard the muskets firing again close by, knew it was useless, just noise, an answer to the cursing from the rebels. Someone’s friend, he thought. Maybe their sergeant. And maybe I shot him in the eye. Like he was trying to do to me.

  The rebel works showed no other movement, the muskets from the Wisconsin men nearby keeping the enemy’s heads down. Bauer held his stare on the pipe, words chattering through his brain. Nobody’s sticking their heads up over there, he thought. They’re gonna keep using this pipe, ’cause they think they’re so damn smart. Some officer’s wonderful idea, a pipe through the sand, a perfectly safe place to put your weapon, your face. He saw another flicker in the speck of daylight, startling, and he calmed himself, took a breath, let it out slowly, squeezed the trigger one more time.

  He slid low again, reloading, went through the automatic motions, tore the cartridge with his teeth, poured the powder into the barrel, caught sight of Willis again, still watching him, and Willis showed him a fist, pumped it slightly, and gave him a smile.

  “What in blazes are they doing down there?”

  Bauer stopped digging, straightened his back, the work stopping for a brief moment. The cotton bales were close in front of them all, other protection as well, hay bales, logs, anything that could be dragged forward during the night to stop a musket ball.

  Far down to the left, Bauer saw what the men were pointing to, a stack of what seemed to be rail ties, piled in a neat square, stacked much taller than a man.

  Beside him, Kelly said, “It looks like some kind of tower.”

  The officer in charge came forward, another of the lieutenants.

  “What’s the rest for? I didn’t order you to stop.”

  Kelly held his shovel in his hands and said, “Sir, look down there. That the Illinois fellas?”

  The lieutenant glanced that way, and Bauer saw a shrug.

  “Indiana. They built a damn tower. Their colonel was bragging about it to Colonel McMahon. They got some sharpshooter, thinks he’s Daniel Boone. Coonskin cap, the whole outfit. An officer, no less. Their colonel said that thing’s high enough, they can shoot right over the top of the earthworks, pop any of those Louisiana boys right off their parapet. All right, rest time’s over. The captain’s got a wager going with the fellows on either side of us about which company will be the first to draw up to spitting distance of the rebel works. I’m counting on you boys to win.”

  The lieutenant moved away, back through the trench, and Bauer saw a sergeant motioning to them with a wave of his hand.

  “You heard him, gents. Now we know why the officers spend so much time hiding back there behind them trees. They’s playin’ card games with our immortal souls. Best ya keep diggin’.”

  The commissary wagons had slipped up closer to the front lines, and when the labor parties completed their shifts, the rewards waited nearby. Bauer had stuffed himself with ham and cold pickled cabbage, the noontime meal following a pile of slapjacks that morning, more ham to go with that.

  He licked his fingers, the last remnants of honey, a surprising luxury handed out in small dabs throughout the company. The hero’s name was Hough, the man stumbling into a beehive, enduring the torture of a mass of stingers to secure the amazing treasure. Hough was one of the sergeants who Bauer had guessed would take over the vacancy left by Finley’s death, and Bauer knew the sergeant’s generous gift had now planted Hough firmly among the unit’s most beloved men.

  Bauer sipped from the tin cup, the water actually drinkable, a spring back behind their position that was serving the entire regiment well. He looked down into the cup, could actually see the bottom, a luxury he had come to appreciate as much as the amazing amount of food. He had enjoyed all he could hold, started to toss the last remnants from the cup, thought better of that, drank the last gulp. For a long moment, he sat in silence, ignored the frivolity that was breaking out around him. For days now, the men had welcomed the rations and their relative safety along the front lines with outbursts of athletics, wrestling matches, knife tossing, what seemed to substitute for the aggression they all felt for the enemy. The labor was just that, shovels instead of muskets, but this was nothing like the swamps of Louisiana. The ground here was mostly dry, a mix of sand and soft clay.

  O’Daniel’s death had thrown a pall over the entire company, putting even the hard cases into a kind of mourning that had surprised Bauer. Bauer wanted to believe he was growing immune to that, but the pain was always there, even for men he had nearly forgotten about. Every death he witnessed now seemed to dredge through him like an iron plow, bringing it all back, all those memories from Shiloh, every face coming back to him, the look in their eyes. It felt like a strange revelation to him that when those men died, they went away, and stayed away, and no matter how angry or sad he was, nothing brought them back. He wouldn’t speak of it, not even to Willis. The others spoke of death in that religious way, the souls going to Heaven, Divine justice, always some kind of reason. But the boy’s death just made him angry, every time he thought about it. If he’s in that better place, there’s a whole family in Wisconsin whose “place” is so much worse. There will be gallons of tears from all those sisters, every life changed by his loss. He thought of the chaplain. This is a question for you, Father. Is this Divine justice? Or did God just make another mistake?

  He stared at the tin plate, the last piece of salty ham, tried to see the boy’s face, the ridiculous shock of red hair, felt nothing at all. Something’s wrong with you, he thought. Or maybe we always knew that boy was done for, like he brought it with him. Even he seemed to know it. All that talk about how much he was needed back home. Look at me. Nobody needs me worth a lick, and I ain’t got so much as a damn scratch. He thought of Willis, the man’s perfect calm in the face of the most terrifying fights. Like he just doesn’t care. Maybe that’s how it’s done. That’s what makes a man good at this. You’re not scared to death if you don’t care about dying. That boy … cared too much.

  He shook his head. Stop thinking. The best thing you can do right now is find a place to take a nap. He let out a long, low belch and put a hand on his stomach.

  “You’ll give away our position, Private. We’re not running out of rations, you know. Don’t be such a damn hog.” Willis walked up close, stood over him, didn’t sit. “Boiling up some beef for tonight, they tell me. Lots of cabbage, too, pickled and otherwise. And sweet potatoes. There’s a damn mountain of those things back there. I guess they’re afraid if they don’t feed us for a change, we’ll up and quit. Let’s go.”

  Bauer kept his hand on his stomach and said, “Go where? I’m pretty comfortable right here.”

  The humor faded from Willis’s voice.

  “Get on your damn feet, Private. We have a mission.”

  Bauer rose slowly, stretched lazily, and Willis pointed to his musket.

  “Take that along. You’re gonna make us all proud. I got permission from the colonel to make a visit to that tower.”

  “The rail tie thing? Why?”

  “You’re not curious about it? The provost guards are chasing after people all over the place who’re trying to get close enough to peek inside. We can go down there and march right in. I got us orders. Damn, Dutchie, show a little appreciation.”

  Bauer retrieved the musket, and Willis was already moving away.

  “Forward, march, Private. We don’t have all afternoon. You’ve still got another shift up front with the shovel.”

  NEAR BATTERY HICKENLOOPER,

  OPPOSITE THE 3RD LOUISIANA REDAN

  The tower was massively thick, and Bauer stood in admiration, not so much for the structure as for the man who had come up with the idea. He looked at the man now, ignored the lieutenant’s straps on the coat, focused in
stead on the man’s head, the fat coonskin cap. Willis slapped Bauer on the back and said, “Lieutenant Foster, this is Private Bauer, 17th Wisconsin, Company B. Finest marksman in the outfit. We would be privileged if the 23rd Indiana would provide us the opportunity to have Private Bauer take a stab at one of those Louisiana fellows over there.”

  Foster stood with his hands on his hips and appraised Bauer, spit a stream of brown goo past Bauer’s foot.

  “This ain’t no carnival show, you know. We’re keeping the enemy’s heads down over there, so’s we can get these earthworks pushed up close. That’s the job, Lieutenant … what’s your name again?”

  “Willis.”

  “Willis. I’m Henry Foster. Call me Coonskin. Guess you figured out why. Wisconsin boys, eh? Never known any crack shots from up your way. Tell you what, Private. You follow me on up there. I’ll show you how this duty’s performed.” He paused, tilted his head, looked at Willis. “You got the fee?”

  Willis was prepared, held out the twenty-five-cent piece, Foster taking it without comment. Bauer wanted to ask Willis what had just happened, thought better of it, couldn’t avoid staring at the absurd hat.

  Bauer waited for the next move. Foster stepped back and said, “All right, Private. Your lieutenant’s paid the toll. You’re entitled to a real treat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Coonskin. You call me sir again and I’ll toss you off this thing.”

  Foster moved into the tower, climbed up on the natural steps made by the uneven rails. Willis leaned close to Bauer and said, “Make us proud, Dutchie.”

  Bauer felt the odd sensation that a game was afoot, moved into the tower, watched Foster scurrying up like some demented bug. Bauer followed, felt his way a step at a time, saw Foster above him, a hand down.

  “Gimme your musket.”

  Bauer obeyed, climbed up the last few feet, the top of the tower a small platform, enough height for a man to squat without being seen.

  Foster said, “Now, you listen here. There’s rules to this. You don’t just stand up there and start shooting to beat hell. Rebs too smart for that. You got to catch ’em when they’re angry, when they ain’t thinkin’ straight. Load that thing.”

  Bauer nodded silently, fought the instinct to say sir. Foster peered up, spit another stream of tobacco out the side of the tower, then sat, leaned against the thick brown wood, his back to the rebel position. Bauer completed the loading, the question burning inside of him.

  “Mr. Coonskin … how is it this thing hasn’t been blown to bits? We’re awful close.”

  “Oh, they’ve tried, Private. It cost ’em a couple of six-pounders for their trouble. Captain Hickenlooper, he’s General McPherson’s chief engineer. Well, he’s put a battery right over there, within a hundred fifty yards of those rebs. You can be sure they’re not too pleased about that. But anytime one of their guns tries to hit this thing, or anything else for that matter, Hickenlooper’s pieces blow it to hell. Day or night. It’s a sight to behold. But the rebels learn quick. I been squattin’ up here for a couple days now, pickin’ those boys off right regularly. A few of my boys done the same. Not right for a platoon commander to get all the fun. So, naturally, the rebs over there hate me plenty. They keep bringing their best squirrel shooters up there on their parapet to pick me off. Only problem for those boys is … this squirrel shoots back.” Foster removed the coonskin hat, put his hand inside, three fingers poking through. “You see this? They catch sight of this fur, and it gets their blood boiling. Like I said, Private. Fun.”

  Foster picked up a small stick and inserted it into the hat.

  “Now, get yourself up and ready, on your knees. I’ll draw fire. You pop up and aim quick, and I promise you, you’ll have a target.”

  Bauer felt nervous now, knew Willis was watching everything down below, heard voices, others as well, taunts and teasing. He double-checked the percussion cap, and Foster raised the coonskin cap slowly, the fur rising just above the wooden rail. He slid it to one side now, then moved it back the other way, and now the crack came, the musket ball smacking the wood outside the tower, close behind Foster’s back. Bauer saw a beaming smile, and Foster motioned him upward, then shouted out, “Aaaagh!”

  Bauer rose up, leveled the musket on the rail, and scanned the rebel works in a frantic search. Across the way, the redan had dug-out rifle ports above a platform, and he saw the motion, a handful of men in a cluster on the parapet, field glasses, one man with a musket, reloading, another musket coming up. Beside him, Foster kept the hat in motion toward the corner and called out again.

  “Aaaagh. You got me. Dang, it hurts!”

  Bauer tried to concentrate, aimed at the man with the field glasses, the two round eyes staring toward him, and Bauer let out a breath, slowly, the sights lined up perfectly, and fired the musket.

  Foster was up quickly, field glasses of his own, and shouted again, this time down toward the ground.

  “Whoeee! Got him! Hey, boys, get ready to take some turns up here. Rebs are gonna pitch a fit. Wisconsin here just took down one of their officers!” Foster planted the coonskin on his head and looked at Bauer. “Nice shooting, Private.”

  Bauer felt a strange stirring in his stomach.

  “Should I reload?”

  “Nah. You’re done. Twenty-five cents gets you one round. I need my boys to get back up here and go to work. We’re still digging all around us every minute of the day and night. We’re working the shovels in shifts. Doing shifts up here, too.”

  The voice came from below.

  “Coonskin! Hang on up there. There’s an officer here who’s coming up!”

  Foster scowled.

  “Sightseers. Every hour or two some colonel’s gotta have a peek. Somebody’s gonna get their head blown off.”

  Bauer heard the man climbing, small grunts, boots on the wooden timbers, caught the smell of cigars. He saw the hat now, wide-brimmed, and the man reached up to the platform, Foster taking his hand, the last bit of effort. The man looked at both of them, nodded politely, no smile, and said, “Don’t mean to be in the way. Marvelous thing you’ve done here. Captain Hickenlooper says you’re helping his efforts considerably.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The man glanced at Bauer, a slight nod, then stood slowly, leaning his arms up on the rail, staring out. Bauer had a jolt of fear, wanted to say something, caution the man, and the musket fire came now, the officer offering too much of a target. But the ball whistled past, another smacking the wood, and the officer reacted, squatted down, and said, “I seem to have attracted a bit of attention.”

  Foster smiled.

  “That’s what we’re up here for, sir.”

  “Well, you boys go on about your business. Just had to see this. Well done. Well done indeed.”

  The man dropped down quickly, and Foster motioned to Bauer, pointing down. Bauer started the descent, waited for the officer to clear the way, dropped the last few feet, saw Willis, silent, wide-eyed. The senior officer stared up for a long moment, lit a cigar, nodded approvingly toward the tower.

  “Yep. Well done.”

  He moved away now, a pair of aides waiting for him, the man slipping down into a ravine, then back, quickly out of sight. Willis made a sound, and Bauer saw him staring out that way, and Bauer said, “What’s wrong, Sammie?”

  “You know who that was?”

  “Some senior commander. Coonskin said something about a colonel.”

  “You didn’t see his straps?”

  “Didn’t look. Sorry. Did I mess up?”

  Willis laughed now, a rare outburst, and Foster emerged from the tower now.

  “What’s ailing you?” he asked. “You got some joke I need to hear?”

  Willis kept the smile, looked toward the ground.

  “I’d say so. You get him visiting you often?”

  Foster adjusted the fur hat, said, “Always some dang parade coming through here. Looks like he didn’t even have a horse. Who was he? Di
vision?”

  Willis looked at Bauer now, still the smile.

  “No. Little bigger chest than that, Coonskin. That was General Grant.”

  They walked through the guard posts, Willis leading the way, crossed a wide hardpan road. Bauer worked to keep up with Willis’s pace, hadn’t seen him this energized in a long time.

  “Sammie, you in a hurry? There’s time for me to do my shovel shift. Don’t worry.”

  Willis led him down into a deep cut, men nodding to them, silent acknowledgment, no conversation. Bauer struggled to catch up, both men climbing a steep hillside, and Willis halted just before the crest, catching his breath. Bauer was there now.

  “How in blazes you know that was General Grant, anyway? I didn’t see any fancy uniform.”

  “That’s why you’re a private. You think that if they make you a general, you’re gonna parade all across the front lines like some prize-winning rooster? He had his stars on his shoulder, but that’s it. No dress uniform, no horse, no big staff trailing out behind him. Smart. That’s why he’s Grant and you’re not.”

  “Wowee. I was right next to him. Sammie, they shot at him! I’d have been there if he’d a been killed!” Bauer flopped down, sat on the sloping hillside. “Maybe I shoulda told him I shot down a reb officer. Guess he’d have been pleased with that. Or maybe not. Mighta gotten him really ticked at me. That wouldn’t have been good at all.”

  Bauer was suddenly consumed with worry, and Willis sat beside him.

  “What’s eating you? Old Coonskin confirmed you got an officer. Good shot.”

  “Well, you sure about that? I hear officers don’t care for us taking down their own kind.”

  “You’re talking to an officer right now, you jackass. Take it from me, you kill any rebel you see. If he’s got brass buttons, you kill him twice. Besides, that good shooting you did won me a bet. We had a wager with those Indiana boys. I guessed right, that you’d do the job. Picked up a silver dollar for it.”

  “You won a bet? What if I’d have missed?”